A Light in the Attic

I’ve written about transitions before and how hard they are. And currently I’m in the hardest one yet. Dear friends, people I know well and those whom I don’t know at all, those who’ve followed my little but adventurous life on this blog for so long, I want to share with you that after nearly 12 years of marriage, my husband told me he wants a separation and he moved out.

It is now just me, and one elderly cat who either walks around lost and meowing, or spends all day in a closet, in an attic apartment located inside of a strange home in a suburban part of a city I once knew well. And if that sounds sad – an almost 40-year-old woman now untethered from the life of adventure (but also stability) that she choose back when she was 27 – in an attic trying to figure out what the next parts of life will look like, mourning the loss of a fulfilling life abroad that she loved – it’s because it is sad. It is okay for you to be sad about it, but I do feel bad to have made you sad.

I won’t go into what led to the downfall of our marriage. Although I am a person who Googles things like “Why did Reese Witherspoon and her husband get divorced” looking for what every curious person wonders when seemingly great couples split: What in the world went wrong and how can it not happen to me? All I feel like sharing now is that while you might be thinking “Well social media is fake,” I actually don’t think that’s true. There was a lot of joy in our life together and I myself contain what feels to be unbridled amounts of joy, awe, curiosity, desire to connect and share, desire to think deeply, to maybe poke the bruise, to tell stories. None of that was ever fake.

There’s a rectangle of light from one of the skylights in the attic in this new strange home of mine. It warms the carpet from late morning through the early afternoon. Gus comes out of the closet and into the light in the attic, to feel the sun on his orange fur, fur that’s lost its former luster. The other day I danced in that square of light to Florence and the Machine’s “Free” with my arms flailing and my tears fucking flying. I can’t say I felt free, but I sure felt something.

You know what the absolute best part of my life abroad was? I have so many friends from all these places and parts of my life. A number of them are in DC with me now, and those who aren’t I’ve had long talks with or have those scheduled. And I have a small group of best friends in DC who have known me forever, and who have cried with me and fed me in these past days, one who danced with me the other night to First Aid Kit’s songs of breakups and redemption at The Anthem, and they’ve all told me they’re certain that I’ll be okay. I believe them.

Since moving into the attic apartment a month ago, I’ve thought about how I wanted to characterize it. It’s not the Anne Frank attic (truly a suggestion someone offered). I was trying out Uncle Jesse’s cool attic bachelor pad from Full House. I toyed with the “Diplomat in the Attic Residency Program” but now the diplomat is not there. So, it’ll be the Light in the Attic attic. I couldn’t begin to overstate the influence the poet Shel Silverstein had on me as a child and on my desire to be a writer. So it fits.

A Light in the Attic by Shel Silverstein

There’s a light on in the attic.
Though the house is dark and shuttered,
I can see a flickerin’ flutter,
And I know what it’s about.
There’s a light on in the attic.
I can see it from the outside.
And I know you’re on the inside… lookin’ out.